Forever in a Dream
by JennaEf
Summary: For John, having those dreams was like having two lives - one real, and one imagined; but which one was going to win? Slash, raiting may go up for the future chapters. See the notes inside. Disclamer: don't own, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, I know that I have FOUR stories I should be working on, instead of starting a new one... But I just couldn't resist. Sorry. The other stories will be also continued, don't worry.**

**About this one: it's a sequel to my chapter "The music of your soul", which could be found in Cyberbutterfly's and mine co-authored fic "And now for something completely different".**

**Also, a huge THANK YOU to sharmini for inspiring me to start writing this story.**

**And of course, my unending gratitude to my wonderful beta, Pilikia18.  
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**A bit of explanation: the portions of text written in **_italics_** are actually John's dreams.**

* * *

><p><strong>Fancy a Tuesday night concert from now on? SH.<strong>

John knew his answer the second his gaze fell on Sherlock's note. It was the same answer he had given to Sherlock during that memorable first meeting in their future flat.

Oh God, yes.

It was simple, really. Because the moment those words had left his mouth, he knew he was hooked.

Scratch that. Try addicted. Fully, desperately, and undeniably addicted to the mystery, wild chases across London, danger, and mayhem that was Sherlock's daily life.

Addicted to the brilliant and crazy man who was living that life.

Addicted to Sherlock.

It was never easy - sometimes intolerable enough for John to start contemplating leaving for good without the backward glance. A couple of times he even did, only to return again a few days later. Sherlock had never asked him about those occasions, but John remembered the expression of relief flashing in the younger man's grey-blue eyes. It was gone the next moment, but for John it had been enough to catch its meaning.

He had been missed.

And just like that, it kept happening. Step by step, touch by touch, little by little, they were getting closer to each other. Well, at least as close as they could get considering Sherlock being a high-functioning sociopath and John always respecting his friend's privacy (even if Sherlock totally failed to reciprocate).

John was okay with that. Having seen much in his life, he understood the concept 'everything in this world comes with a price' perfectly - which hadn't stopped him from arguing with Sherlock though, if he deemed it necessary.

It was one of the recurring arguments that had forced John to execute his clarinet-involving plan and, in turn, resulted in the form of the note, which John was currently staring at.

His decision made, he took the music paper from the fridge, wrote his answer and left it on the kitchen table…

* * *

><p>When John returned home in the early evening, Sherlock wasn't there; but a new note was waiting for him on the kitchen table – again on the music paper.<p>

**Good. Suggestions? SH.**

It was John's turn to pick the music for their next performance, then. He did an extensive web-search, placed an order online and finally left the newly purchased book on the kitchen table, opening it on the desired page.

They had barely seen each other the last few days, but with John's new job and Sherlock's new case that wasn't unusual. Sherlock texted John quite often with important questions, and John kept the fridge stocked with precooked food, sticking reminders for Sherlock to eat on various surfaces in the flat.

And, of course, there was their recent musical correspondence.

The book was missing from the table the next morning; there were scanned sheets in its place, and a note.

**Bet you hadn't left yourself a copy. Those are for you. Tuesday night, my room. SH.**

Smiling, John wrote "_I'll be there_" beneath, managed to find a few minutes for simple breakfast and left for work. He had three days till Tuesday, and that meant he needed to start learning his piece this evening. So he took the pages with him in order to try and get the first impression of what exactly he was supposed to be playing. Granted, he chose the piece himself, and he liked it from the beginning when he actually heard it; but hearing and playing was a big difference. He still had a few doubts about the level of his skill, and having Sherlock as the other part in their duet was actually like having some sort of standard. He simply couldn't afford to be careless about the whole thing because, if they were going to play it, it ought to be nothing but beautiful.

* * *

><p>When he got home after work, John was pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock in his usual reclined position on the sofa. The thin genius was engrossed in a familiar book, studying it intently and from time to time writing something on the pages. Hearing his flatmate stumbling tiredly into the living room, the detective raised his head, looked at John for a few seconds, and then turned his attention back to the book.<p>

"Evening, John," he said thoughtfully.

"Evening, Sherlock," the ex-army medic slid the strap of his workbag from his shoulder, dropping it onto the floor near his chair, and pulled his jacket off. "So, the case is finished, I take it?"

"Not quite," the younger man replied distractedly. "Well, technically Lestrade has caught the suspect, or so he thinks. He is annoyingly sure about that."

"And you disagree?"

"If it was otherwise, I wouldn't be sitting here now, John," Sherlock said in irritation, throwing his book aside. "But you're not satisfied with your work either, I see."

John sat down and rubbed his face with his hands. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Sherlock smirked. "Keep telling yourself that, John," he reached out and picked up the book. "It took a minute and a half for you to walk up the stairs; you keep rolling your shoulder and you're obviously favouring your leg. Shall I continue?"

"I didn't expect it to be easy, Sherlock," John replied defensively. "I can manage, don't worry."

"I guess it's contagious," the detective grumbled, snapping the book shut. "Okay, what about dinner?"

"In or out?" John enquired shortly.

"I prefer to stay here," Sherlock stretched languidly, putting his arms behind his head. "And besides, the fridge is fully stocked, thanks to you. I even promise to help you with the preparation, if you want."

The doctor's eyes followed his friend's movement with accustomed appreciation. "That would be marvellous."

"Good," the detective rose from the sofa in one fluid motion. "Let's get started, then. And after that we can practice together."

John nodded, and the two friends moved into the kitchen to continue their quiet evening together…

* * *

><p>Despite Sherlock's obvious disapproval, John continued working in the clinic, although he managed to negotiate a less stressful schedule for himself. That new arrangement allowed John to save his strength considerably, which in turn made his practice sessions more effective.<p>

Sherlock spent those three days at home, adamant in his decision to wait until Lestrade would realise his mistake and call him back.

"It's not 'if', John, it's 'when'," Sherlock said confidently. "I know who the killer is and where he is now. I even made sure that he wouldn't harm anyone ever again."

"How?" John asked, not at all liking his friend's triumphant expression.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "The point is…"

"To prove that you're clever once again, I get it," John interrupted, cringing inwardly.

'There are some things in the world that would never change, and Sherlock will always be Sherlock,' the blond doctor thought with resignation. 'It's time to get used to it.'

The detective looked at him intently, but said nothing. It was a recurring topic in their conversations, and it always led them nowhere, so they gradually got used to curtail it just like Sherlock did now, picking up his violin.

"I'll go first, then," he announced, and John got up to retrieve his clarinet, nodding briefly as he went upstairs.

They had rehearsed together during the last three days, usually in the evening; but they had played their parts separately, so when one of them was playing, the other was listening, and vice versa. It was their mutual agreement to perform the actual duet only on Tuesday night.

Which, by the way, happened to be this night. 4 A.M., as always.

Sherlock played through his part fluently, with his eyes closed, and John allowed himself to get caught up in the music – so deep, that Sherlock actually had to physically shake him out of it. It took nearly three minutes for John to get back to reality, and all that time Sherlock was crouching in front of him, his hands on John's shoulders and his grey-blue eyes searching his friend's face intently.

"I'm okay," John reassured him finally, and Sherlock backed away, reclaiming the sofa once again.

"Guess it was good, then," he surmised, visibly flattered by John's reaction.

"Extraordinary," the blond-haired man confirmed. "My turn, right?"

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. "Take your time, we have all night."

"No, I'm… perfectly ready," John raised his clarinet to his lips, but Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes.

"On the other hand, we can play the whole thing after your part, and let you sleep till morning. How does that sound?"

"Marvellous."

"So be it," and Sherlock closed his eyes…

* * *

><p>They played in perfect unison, the beautiful music swirling around them, pulling John deeper with each sound, and he swayed slightly, following it. The sound of Sherlock's violin held him captive, mesmerized, unable to do anything but submit willingly to its strong pull. He risked opening his eyes, trying to see how Sherlock was reacting; and the moment he did it, he felt his breath catch in his throat.<p>

His friend stood in the middle of the room, the grey-blue eyes open wide, unseeing; a dreamy expression on his normally impassive face, and his hands… Like two pale exotic birds they moved gracefully in the air, living their own life and making John want to weep quietly from overwhelming joy and contentment.

It couldn't last long, and it didn't. The moment the last sound dissolved in the air, they both took a few shaky steps and fell into their armchairs, completely drained and exhausted, but at the same time immensely satisfied.

"Sherlock," John managed to whisper.

The detective hummed quietly, and gave a small wave with his hand, encouraging him to continue.

"Thank you," the doctor breathed out, closing his eyes.

Sherlock hummed again. "We need to get you into your room. No good for you to sleep here."

"Doesn't matter," John mumbled, already half-asleep. "Comfy."

"Not healthy," the dark-haired man contradicted, summoning all his remaining strength and pushing himself out of the chair. John, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, honestly envied the graceful ease with which Sherlock managed to cross the room and haul him upright. "Okay, up you go. Into your room and in your bed, pronto."

They staggered together up the stairs and into John's room, and Sherlock carefully deposited his drowsy flatmate on the bed.

"Good night and pleasant dreams," following a sudden urge, Sherlock reached out and stroked a hand through John's short hair.

The blond-haired doctor sighed in utter content. "Night, Sherlock," he murmured, already drifting away.

The detective turned around and left the room, a soft smile playing on his lips.

It was an exceptionally good night, he decided, walking down the stairs…

* * *

><p><em>The flat was <em>_shrouded in semi-darkness and too quiet, so Sherlock clearly was out again, John decided. Funny, even in his dream his flatmate was never resting, always absorbed in his work. The ex-army doctor smiled slightly and reached out towards the light switch in the living room, when a familiar sound made him stop._

_It was the sound of Sherlock's violin. And it definitely was coming from John's bedroom._

_The thin genius was violating his privacy again. In his own dream. How unoriginal._

_Rolling his eyes, John quickly scaled the stairs and pulled the door open._

_And then promptly froze on the spot._

_The room was bathed in warm yellow light from a __dozen__ candles. And it was definitely different – at least from the one he remembered. It was tasteful and cosy, though, so John accepted that change._

_But there was another mystery in his room – a man, clad in a splendid maroon velvet dressing gown, reclining on John's coach and holding Sherlock's violin. The positioning of candles, however, left the corner of the room with the coach in shadow, so the doctor could barely make out a few details about the stranger, but the shock of ginger hair was irresistibly drawing his attention._

"_Hello," he said at last, still trying to see his guest more clearly._

"_John!" the stranger exclaimed with excitement, his voice sounding somewhat familiar. "Finally! I was starting to worry. Where have you been?"_

"_I'm sorry, but..," John began, but right at that moment his enigmatic guest put the violin aside and rose from the coach, coming into the light. The ex-army medic took a good look and staggered back. "Sherlock?"_

_The ginger maverick frowned slightly. "Of course it's me, John, who else? Is something wrong? You look rather pale."_

"_No, it's just..," John shook his head, trying to come in terms with the strange situation. "What are you doing in my room?"_

_A guilty expression appeared on the ginger-haired man's face. "I'm sorry to barge in so unceremoniously, but I needed to show you something."_

"_Another one of your experiments, I guess? I hope it isn't harmful," John replied long-sufferingly._

"_Experiments?" the strange dream version of Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, John?"_

"_Your work, Sherlock. Experiments. Cases. Solving mysteries. That kind of stuff."_

_Confusion on the younger man's face was rapidly transforming into concern. "John, are you sure you all right?"_

"_Yes, why?"_

"_I think you're mistaking me for someone else, John. Are you sure you haven't hit your head or something?"_

"_Yes, I'm sure. And you are Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective… Why are you laughing?"_

_The younger man waved his hands helplessly, caught in a bout of honest belly laughter, tears streaming from his eyes. John had to wait nearly five minutes for Sherlock to finally calm down and recover the ability to speak._

"_That's why I really like you, John," Sherlock said finally, still chuckling. "You never cease to amaze me. Such imagination!"_

"_What do you mean?" it was John's turn to be confused._

"_Let me show you something," the younger man turned, bending down to retrieve a painting, which was leaned against the coach. "Here. Look."_

_It was a picture of their living room in Victorian style, painted in rich colours; stunningly beautiful, John decided._

"_What do you think?" Sherlock asked smugly._

"_It's great," the blond doctor admitted. "Who's the painter?"_

"_Me. I'm an artist, John, remember?"_

_John started to chuckle, but thought better of it when Sherlock's face instantly obtained the deeply hurt expression. "Okay, so you're an artist. And we're flatmates, I guess?"_

"_Exactly," Sherlock placed his painting on John's bed. "It's for you, by the way. Since you'd become so fond of our flat during this week… I didn't expect you to be so sentimental."_

_A week? But that means they had to have moved in when he and the real Sherlock…_

_No, it couldn't be…_

_He frantically tried to remember his dream after their first night concert, and came up with nothing._

_He'd had that dream, obviously; he just didn't happen to remember it._

_But this Sherlock did, and it meant having an advantage, however small it was._

_A bit not good, as the real Sherlock would__'ve __labelled that situation._

_Unsettled by his strange behaviour, the ginger-haired man finally made an attempt to breach the sudden gap. "Tea?" he asked hopefully. "You look tired, John, I think a cup of herbal tea would be very beneficial."_

"_I think so," John agreed, glad to have a distraction._

"_Good!" Sherlock exclaimed, rubbing his hands together gleefully and darting towards the door._

_John started to turn around, preparing to follow his cheerful flatmate, and therefore was totally unprepared when two long arms sneaked around his body and a chaste kiss was placed on his temple. It happened in a flash, and Sherlock dashed away, leaving John stunned and open-mouthed._

_Well, that DEFINITELY was something new._

"_John, do you happen to know where we put the tea?" Sherlock called to him from downstairs, and John rolled his eyes, thankful for the restored normalcy. And, what was more important, he really happened to know where the tea was._

"_Try the cupboard on the left, the one above the sink," he called back, walking towards the door._

"_Got it!" Sherlock announced happily a moment later. "Thanks! Are you coming?"_

_John's brain chose to do a sudden detour into the gutter at that moment and his voice definitely sounded a little strained when he yelled "In a minute!"_

_When John got in the kitchen, Sherlock was already pouring the tea into two cups. Here, in the bright light, John could see more clearly and he used that opportunity to take a good look at his flatmate._

_Truth be said, this version of Sherlock was quite dashing, mostly because of his ginger hair. The vibrant colour made him look younger somehow, and less bitter. All in all, John found that he liked what he saw; and, judging by Sherlock's knowing smile, the younger man wasn't opposed to the fact of John appreciating his appearance._

"_Toast or biscuits, John?" the painter enquired, rummaging through the cupboard. "We have jam, by the way."_

"_Biscuits would be lovely, thank you," John decided, and Sherlock immediately placed a pack of chocolate-covered goodies on the table, then sat down across of John. The ex-army medic took a sip of his tea. "Mmm, tastes good."_

"_It's a family recipe," Sherlock said, reaching for a biscuit. "My mother used to brew it when I was little."_

"_Yeah… It's a funny thing, but I don't seem to remember… Have I asked you about your family?"_

"_No, you haven't. Actually, we haven't had much time for talks, what with moving in and sorting things out… Don't worry; I think that we'll be able to fill that void of knowledge about each other very soon. We can start right now, if you wish. What do you want to know?"_

"_Why you'd become an artist?"_

"_I liked to draw since childhood, and my mother encouraged me to pursue an art career. She was a musician, a pianist, the only person who had accepted me unconditionally."_

"_And your father?"_

"_He was a politician, like my brother is now. I wasn't exactly close to father nor am I close to Mycroft. It's complicated, really, and I don't…"_

"_That's okay," John hastened to placate Sherlock, seeing that the younger man was becoming frustrated. "My family isn't picture perfect either."_

_John always tried to avoid telling anyone about his family problems. He still hadn't come to terms with them, and during the rare occasions when he chose to talk about it, his whole demeanour clearly betrayed his distress. And it was happening right now, judging by the fact that Sherlock's hand suddenly covered his, squeezing lightly._

_The younger man looked at him sympathetically and stroked his hand with the tips of his fingers. "Don't torture yourself, John. We both decided to start a new life, remember? So let's just turn over the page and continue living. Oh, and by the way: I'm going to Paris tomorrow, and I would appreciate your company on that trip. How about it?"_

_Paris? Tomorrow?_

_This dream kept getting better with each moment, John decided. If only it would last…_

"_I would love to - if you really want me along," he said, trying to curb his excitement._

"_Oh, I definitely want you, believe me," Sherlock replied in a low voice, his eyes twinkling mischievously, and John felt a pleasant shiver run through his body._

_Better and better still…_

* * *

><p>"John! John, wake up! John!"<p>

A hand was gripping his shoulder, shaking him insistently, and John jerked upright, almost knocking Sherlock – of course, who else would it be? – off his feet.

The detective managed to keep his balance by latching onto John's tee-shirt with both hands, and the older man gripped Sherlock's wrists automatically, steadying him.

The dream still lingered in his mind, and it took him a couple of minutes to push the vision of ginger-haired Sherlock aside and accept the real Sherlock again.

"Lestrade has given up, John," Sherlock announced triumphantly. "I already texted him the address. Hurry up, John; we'll leave in five minutes!"

With that, the thin genius whirled out of the room, leaving John's mind scrambling furtively in order to get a grip on the reality.

The possibility of going totally bonkers in a short period of time was becoming frighteningly real, John realised, getting out of bed and starting to dress…

**Well... Questions, suggestions, opinions? Considering the fact that the world of dreams doesn't abide by the rules of the real world, of course...  
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	2. Chapter 2

**So, once again venturing into a story with two worlds: a real world and a world of dreams. Fasten your seatbelts, dear readers, we're going in... right now!**

When John got downstairs, Sherlock was already pacing in the living room, dressed and ready to go. The lights in the kitchen were off, and John's honed Sherlock-reading skill told him that the detective, already consumed with the rush of proving himself right, had completely forgotten about food again.

Well, in that case, he definitely had another thing coming.

John took a position in the doorway, hands on his hips. "Did you eat?"

Sherlock, caught off-guard, whirled around to face him. "What?"

"Breakfast, Sherlock," the doctor declared. "The funny thing called food. Did you have it?"

The tall man's face creased in irritation. "We don't have time for that, John. Lestrade…"

"That's where you're wrong, Sherlock," John's voice brooked no argument. "We're not going anywhere until you have at least a cuppa and some toast. Lestrade can wait. And after all, it's not like you're going to catch the suspect red-handed. So breakfast it is."

A look of annoyance crossed Sherlock's face. "John, we really…"

The blond doctor narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock."

The great detective knew full well what that expression meant. John 'Don't-mess-with-me' Watson came out to play, so now it was his way or no way. And Sherlock also knew that for him it was absolute 'no-win' situation.

"Okay," he conceded easily and moved into the kitchen, leaning on the counter and waiting for John to prepare aforementioned breakfast.

The older man shook his head and went to plug in the kettle. "It wouldn't hurt for you to do it for a change, you know."

"Nice try, John, but no. And besides, you're skilled in that far better than I am."

John smiled, putting two slices of bread in the toaster. "Is that a compliment, Sherlock?"

"Certainly," the detective turned around and pulled two mugs from the cupboard.

"Well, thank you, I guess," John placed two teabags into the mugs and laid out the toasts. "Oh, and can you get the jam while you're at it?"

Sherlock smirked. "Having a blast, aren't you?"

"No, just taking advantage," the ex-army medic switched off the boiling kettle and poured the steaming water into the mugs, then transferred their impromptu breakfast onto the table. "Okay, dig in."

The younger man was determined to finish his meal as quickly as possible, so he grabbed the toast, smeared it with a copious amount of jam and wolfed it down in ten seconds flat, then gulped his tea in a few mouthfuls.

John rolled his eyes. "You're going to choke yourself to death someday, eating like that."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, then I'm lucky to have a doctor as my flatmate."

"True, but…"

"But nothing, John," the detective bit out, stressing the word 'nothing'. "Are you done? Can we go?"

'I had struck a chord,' the thought fluttered through the doctor's mind, and he made a mental note to explore the subject later. Rinsing the plate and the mugs off, he put them back in the cupboard and moved towards the stairs.

"Yes, and we can, Sherlock," John grabbed his jacket on the way and left the flat with Sherlock on his heels.

To John's surprise, Sherlock gave the cabby the address of one of the motels in Soho. Catching his friend's questioning gaze, he shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I did say that I made sure he wouldn't harm anybody."

"Yes, you did. But other than that I've absolutely no idea what this case is about."

"Oh, right. To put it simply, it's all about the family inheritance. Lestrade suspected the nephew, whereas the brother was the real killer."

"And you know that because…"

"Red and green cufflinks. The killer was colour-blind, so the cufflinks didn't match."

"And the nephew?"

"Poorly fabricated evidence and his girlfriend's confession. He was in a nightclub."

"But why did he do it? The brother, I mean?"

Unexpectedly for John, a sad smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "That's the great irony of it all, John. Love is the most vicious motivator. Both brothers loved their only youngster, but the uncle had a malignant brain tumour. The youngster falls in love with the 'wrong' girl – in his uncle's opinion, that is – and decides to marry her. A battle of wills ensues and the uncle threatens to change his testament. The two brothers meet for negotiations, things didn't go as planned. The boy's father poisons his sibling and arranges everything as if it was a suicide. His son walks in while he's doing it; he panics, but then decides to help his father. Predictably, a few inconsistencies pop up during the investigation and the boy makes a confession, protecting his father. The case seems to be closed, but the cufflinks are telling an entirely different story."

"Because they didn't match?"

"Exactly."

"But why didn't the son notice his father's mistake? Is he colour-blind, too?"

"No, he isn't. The reason is more trivial – he simply was in a state of shock."

"I see. Thanks for the explanation. You're brilliant as always."

"Oh, it's nothing. Now it's my turn."

"What do you mean?"

"Asking questions. Why did you choose Bach for our concert?"

"You mean "Two Part Inventions"? There were lots of them to choose from and look forward to. But the next..," the insistent beeping cut him off, and John groaned. "Oh, great!"

Sherlock glanced at him, intrigued. "What was that?"

"My pager," the doctor reached under his jacket, unclipping the gadget from his belt. "An emergency at the clinic. I need to go. Excuse me, can you stop right here?"

The cab slowed down and John got out of the car.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I can't help it," he said apologetically, sticking his head back into the car.

"Well, I told you about the case anyway. All that's left is probably me and Lestrade yelling a bit at each other. Not a very interesting thing to see."

"Oh well, then I hope to see you in the evening. And it's your turn to choose the piece. Call me if there's any news."

The detective waved his hand in acknowledgment and the doctor closed the door, watching as the cab immediately sped off and disappeared into the traffic…

* * *

><p>John returned home early in the morning, feeling completely drained and almost dead on his feet, only to discover a gloomy looking Sherlock on the sofa in the living room.<p>

"John," his flatmate continued the random plucking of stings on his beloved violin. "How bad?"

The ex-army medic grimaced. "Don't ask. You?"

"Sort of a grudging gratitude and suspension for a month."

"What? Why?"

"Two main reasons: withholding evidence and assaulting the forensic expert."

"WHAT? Sherlock, tell me you didn't!"

"Deck Anderson? Okay, I won't."

The blond doctor groaned and practically fell into his chair, rubbing his face in frustration. "Sherlock, you must stop doing that."

"Doing what, John? It's not like I deck Anderson each time I see him. But if it'll make you feel better, I can say that he was extremely annoying yesterday."

"I hardly see such fact as settling, Sherlock."

"Well, that's a pity, because I have no other explanation."

"Somehow I didn't think so," the older man pushed himself up from his chair. "I need to sleep, sorry. See you in the evening?"

"Probably. Depends. Oh, and I left the sheets for a new piece on your bed. We are playing "Ave Maria" the next week."

"We do? Can I ask why you chose it?"

"I like it."

"Right," John said, as if it was the most reasonable explanation in the world. "I'll look it through in the evening."

"What about the rehearsal today?"

"Sure, why not? I just need to rest a little, and then we'll do it."

"Good. I'll be waiting."

John nodded and went upstairs, only now realising that since yesterday he hadn't even for a moment thought about his strange dream. The ginger Sherlock immediately appeared in his mind's eye, pulling forth a question John forgot to ask. So the doctor stopped, retraced his steps and poked his head into the living room.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

The thin genius looked up in surprise, quirking an eyebrow. "Yes, of course."

"Have you ever experimented with your hair colour?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why such an interest all of a sudden?"

"No reason. Just a silly thought, I guess."

"Interesting. And yes. Once."

"Oh. And…"

"Ginger. But only because I had miscalculated. I was in Uni at that time."

"Hadn't gone well for your image, I suppose?"

"Quite the opposite. It had drawn too much unwanted attention, so a couple of days later I reversed back to my natural colour. Why the interest, John?"

"I had a dream yesterday, and you were ginger in it. Strange, really, but you were… quite dashing."

"Maybe, but I'm not planning to change my hair colour ever again, dashing or not."

"I'm not asking you to. Just thought it was a funny story to tell. Dreams are strange."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "Yes, sometimes they are. By the way, if I remember correctly, you were going to get some rest."

"Oh, okay. See you in the evening, Sherlock."

"Pleasant dreams, John."

The blond doctor smiled in response, turned around and ascended the stairs. He doubted that he would see his dream continued, but, on the other hand, if there was even a slim chance it could happen… Dreams ARE strange, after all.

Yet those dreams seemed to be somehow correlated with their concerts, and with the next one nearly a week away, chances were REALLY slim.

And why had that subject interested him at all, anyway? It was a dream, it wasn't real…

'_Oh, I definitely want you, believe me...'_

Even now, that almost purring voice evoked a strange, but pleasant feeling of warmth at the pit of John's stomach. Not to mention that the dream version of Sherlock was far more comfortable with showing his affection than the real one...

John frowned.

Affection? Where did THAT come from?

Granted, the hug and the kiss were sort of a giveaway, but still, all of that WASN'T real.

Right?

Right.

So John severed this train of thought and concentrated on getting into his bed. After all, he had a rehearsal in the evening, and it was in his interests to get a quality sleep before that.

Not bothering with the clothes, he climbed into the bed and tugged the duvet over himself, falling asleep a moment later…

* * *

><p><em>The painter was looking at him expectantly, and John shifted his gaze onto their entwined hands, feeling a blush creep onto his cheeks.<em>

"_John," Sherlock said in quiet voice. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"_

_The doctor's eyes snapped back into focus on the younger man's face. "What? No, Sherlock, not at all. It just… a little unexpected, I guess."_

"_I see. Because if it IS uncomfortable, then I shall speak no more about it."_

"_No, it's… I would be glad to accompany you on your journey."_

_The smile on Sherlock's face was positively blinding. "Good! Oh, and by the way, can I ask you to call me Sherly? I like that version of my name better, for various reasons."_

"_No problem, Sherly," John said with ease, discovering that he liked that version too. "So, bearing in mind that we are leaving tomorrow, I think I need to get ready for the trip."_

"_Sure," the painter confirmed. "You probably don't have enough suitable clothes, but with our plane not leaving until tomorrow evening, I think you have plenty of time to correct that."_

"_Are we going to be away for long?"_

"_A week, maybe a little longer. I want to do a painting, and I can't say for sure how long it will take."_

"_Okay, then I…"_

_His mobile chose that exact moment to start ringing, cutting John off mid-sentence, and the doctor pulled the phone out of his pocket. The screen was lit up with the indication of an incoming call from Mike Stamford._

"_It's Mike," John explained, seeing his flatmate's curious expression._

"_Oh, it's your clinic, then. Let's hope it's nothing serious."_

"_My thoughts exactly," the doctor agreed, pressing the "Receive" button. "Hello?"_

"_Hello, John. I'm sorry, I know that you don't like to be disturbed outside of work hours, but we have an emergency. It's your sister. She woke up ten minutes ago, and she has been asking to see you. Repeatedly."_

"_Okay, give me half an hour. What's her condition?"_

"_Relatively fine. She's depressed, but that's understandable. You can't go through a suicide attempt and be all cheerful and sunny."_

_John's mind flashed back to the image of Harriet on the bathroom floor, so still and pale, not breathing, not moving. He remembered doing chest compressions, screaming something, desperately trying to coax her back to life, then a few ridiculously long minutes later Harry jerking convulsively and starting to cough up water._

"_John! John, are you all right? John, answer me, please!" Mike's voice was filled with worry, and the blond realised that he still hadn't given an answer to Stamford's last remark._

"_Sorry, Mike, I spaced out a little. Don't worry, I'm already on my way," John terminated the conversation and stood up, tugging his hand out of Sherlock's. "There's an emergency at the clinic, I need…"_

"_Don't go," the ginger head was lowered, eyes downcast, hands gripping the edge of the table. "It's emotional blackmail, John, don't you see that? She's trying to force you to change your decision."_

"_She's my sister, Sherly. I need to go."_

"_No, you don't. Nothing good will come out of this, believe me."_

"_Why are you so hostile towards her?"_

"_Because I've met her. And you know perfectly well how it all ended."_

_John cringed as another flashback leapt up from his memory – Sherlock, furious, struggling to break free from his arms, shouting obscenities, and Harry giving the younger man a death glare, hands on her hips, her face a mask of hatred and disgust strangely combined._

_The painter nodded, signalling the obviously correct interpretation of John's emotions. "Exactly. I only said 'Hello' and the next moment she tried to strangle me. Not the most civilized behaviour on her part."_

_A heavy sigh forced his way past John's lips. "Partly I'm the one to blame, I'm afraid. She's a drinker, an addict. No wonder that she grew dependent on me. You know perfectly well yourself, how it goes…"_

_Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes flashing with anger, and John realised that it probably was a very wrong thing to say._

"_Don't you dare to compare me to her, John!" the younger man hissed. "You know full well that I was coping with my mother's death followed by father's and Mycroft's betrayal."_

_And that was a wrong thing to say too, John thought, feeling a wave of irritation starting to flood his senses. "Oh, of course it can't be compared with the fact of Harry being rejected by our parents simply because she was what she was, and then abandoned by Clara. You know what, Sherlock? I honestly fail to see the difference!"_

_The ginger-haired man leapt up from his seat so fast that the unlucky piece of furniture went flying backwards. "Fine! Do whatever you want! But I'm still leaving tomorrow, with or without you!"_

_John was taken aback at the sight of Sherlock's face twisted with unadulterated fury. It was ugly, unpleasant and, John had to admit, bloody unsettling. He reached a hand out to Sherlock, but his flatmate slapped it away._

"_Sherly…"_

"_For you from now on it's Sherlock! Be so kind as to remember that!"_

'_Okay, that's it. That's the last straw' the doctor thought, pivoting on his heels and marching to the door._

"_As you wish, SHERLOCK!" he threw, not bothering to turn around. "I'm going to the clinic, whether you like it or not."_

"_Suit yourself," the younger man's voice was cold and emotionless now, and John found himself unwillingly stopping and turning around._

_His flatmate was standing with his back turned, his shoulders slumped dejectedly and his head bowed. The ex-army medic hesitated, not sure what to do._

"_Sherlock...," he said quietly, his voice laced with uncertainty._

_The artist shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself as if trying to shield himself from John. "Go, John. I need to be alone for some time. Go, visit Harry, and come back later. Please."_

"_Sherly…"_

"_I'm going to be okay, John, don't worry. Go!"_

_John's phone started ringing again and Sherlock turned his head to the right._

"_She's waiting for you, John. Settle it and return to me. We have a big day tomorrow."_

_John gave a quick nod, turned around and went downstairs, pulling his phone out and hitting the reply button.  
><em>

_"I'm on my way, Mike. And I forgot to tell you the news: I'm going to Paris tomorrow..."  
><em>

* * *

><p>The rain was drumming a steady beat against the windows of his bedroom, and the blond man opened his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling in semidarkness.<p>

They are not related to the concerts, John thought absentmindedly. Or they simply started to live a life of their own.

Not good either way.

A quiet sigh on his left forced his eyes to dart sideways, and surely enough, there was the familiar silhouette of Sherlock's figure, backlit against the window.

"You were dreaming again, John, weren't you?" the detective whispered. "Tell me about them, John. Tell me about your dreams."

His mind tried to comprehend Sherlock's words. It felt similar to some rusty mechanism trying to overcome the stagnation - the gears were stalling and getting stuck continuously without making any significant progress. Exhausted, John gave up and shifted his attention to the more obvious topic.

"What are you doing in my room, Sherlock?"

"It's evening, John. I was planning to wake you up by knocking on your door first. But when I got upstairs, I heard you talking in your sleep. Well, screaming, actually. I thought you were having a nightmare and decided to come inside. But as soon as I did, your voice changed. It made me curious… John, you were calling ginger me in your sleep Sherly, weren't you? Or am I mistaken?"

John's mind finally managed to shake off the cobwebs of sleep, and he realised what Sherlock was asking him about.

The thin genius was trying to get information out of him.

No bloody way. Not like that.

"Sorry, Sherlock, not now," the doctor said with determination. "Not until I'm READY to tell you."

"Okay, John," the detective agreed with ease. "But I hope you are ready for rehearsal."

"Absolutely."

"Well, then," the younger man rose from the couch and strolled to the door. "Shall we?"

Too easy to be true, John thought, following his friend into the living room. Sherlock giving up so quickly could mean only one thing.

The ex-army medic was frighteningly close to becoming Sherlock's favourite experiment.

And what was more terrifying, he actually found this perspective quite appealing.

**Well... what do you think? Good, bad, something in-between? A feedback of all kind very much appreciated :)**


	3. Chapter 3

In the living room Sherlock went straight to the window, picking up his violin from the sofa on the way. John moved to retrieve his clarinet from the shelf on the left of his armchair and sat down.

"I'll go first," the dark-haired man declared, settling the violin against his shoulder. "Just to give you an impression of how I want it to sound."

John frowned, raised his hand, stood up. "Sorry, I left…"

"On the table," Sherlock chuckled quietly. "Knew you would forget about it in a hurry. Now, settle down and enjoy."

The good doctor obediently sat down, leaned back and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the detective moved, his silk dressing gown rustling as he laid his bow against the strings. "Ready, John?"

The older man nodded, not trusting his voice, and a second later a first tentative note wavered in a quiet room, then another; the sound gradually got bolder, flowing freely and effortlessly. John could almost feel the music drifting towards him, curling around like soft velvet, enveloping him like a cocoon.

The real world was fading away, and John couldn't care less. The sound of Sherlock's violin was his entire world at this point, taking him deeper and deeper, and he hadn't even noticed the moment he was carried back into a deep sleep.

The detective finished his part and stood motionless for a while, debating whether he should wake his companion and send him upstairs, or just leave everything as it was. He had almost decided in favour of the first scenario, when a quiet sound drew his attention towards his flatmate.

John was murmuring something in his sleep, and Sherlock's eyes sparkled with interest. Placing his violin on the table, the younger man slinked across the room and lowered himself into a cross-legged position in front of John's armchair. He couldn't make out anything coherent at first, but as the dream progressed, the ex-army medic become more articulate, and the younger man closed his eyes in concentration, trying to imagine what exactly was happening in his flatmate's dream...

* * *

><p><em>John stepped outside and hesitated for a few moments, having absolutely no idea where he should go next. Sherlock had mentioned his clinic, but apart from that, the blond doctor knew next to nothing. What exactly did 'his' clinic mean? Was he an owner or just an employee? And – which was the main question right now – how the hell was he supposed to get there without knowing where the clinic was?<em>

_He decided to call Mike again, realising that the question he was going to ask would sound absolutely ridiculous, but as soon as he reached inside his coat pocket his fingers encountered a visiting card, which he had obviously failed to notice earlier._

_Frowning, he drew the card out of his pocket and studied it with curiosity. It was his own card with his name and title printed in a handwritten script and – which was more important at the moment – it had the address of his clinic in the lower left corner._

_Replacing the card in his pocket, John grinned and started moving to the edge of the pavement in order to catch a taxi when a silver car swerved towards him from the traffic line, sliding to a stop with its rear door directly in front of him._

'_Well, at least there's a small difference,' the blond doctor thought, slowing his steps and waiting for someone to make an appearance – be it the ever faithful PA or the politician himself. It was a little strange that Mycroft waited so long to make a personal acquaintance with his brother's new flatmate; but on the other hand, considering the facts that Sherlock chose to reveal about his family, this version of Mycroft didn't seemed to be worried about Sherlock as much as the real one was._

_Meanwhile, the door of the car opened and a familiar voice sounded from the inside._

"_Doctor Watson, I presume?"_

_John halted a few steps away from the car and decided to play along. "Maybe. Depends on who's asking."_

_His invisible interrogator chuckled – a rich, velvety sound. "Quite remarkable. Get into the car, Doctor Watson. We need to talk."_

_The blond man crossed his arms over his chest. "And why would I want to do that?"_

"_As I understand, you have an emergency in your clinic right now, and I have some time available to give you a lift."_

_Okay, maybe equally worried as the real one. "And how the hell do you know that, pray tell? Who are you?"_

"_An interested party. Get in the car, Doctor Watson. Let's not attract unwanted attention."_

"_And if I refuse?"_

"_You're a rational man, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm positive we can avoid that."_

_John briefly turned his head around to glance up at their living room windows, and surely enough, Sherlock was lurking behind one of the curtains – his gaze glued to the car and an expression of concern clearly showing on his face. Having experienced firsthand how impulsive his ginger companion could be, the blond doctor instantly realised that, should Sherlock decide to interfere right now, a fair amount of unwanted attention was inevitable._

_It was a 'now or never' situation and John quickly crossed the remaining distance, sliding onto the seat beside Mycroft in one smooth move and closing the door._

"_I knew you would make the right choice, Doctor Watson," the older Holmes smiled pleasantly as the car carried them away from Baker Street 221B._

_John took his time to have a good look at the dream version of Mycroft. The man looked almost exactly the same as the real one, apart from the fact that his umbrella was a dark blue, matching the colour of his three-piece suit. A few frown lines on his forehead and unexpected crinkles at the corners of his eyes completed the difference._

_The politician endured his scrutiny with perfect calm and, when John's gaze finally shifted away from his face to look out of the window, he smiled again._

"_So, Doctor Watson, do you have any idea as to who I actually am?" Mycroft's voice was calm and only conveyed a slight hint of curiosity._

_It was John's turn to smile. "Of course, Mister Holmes."_

_Mycroft tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Impressive. And how did you come to this conclusion, may I ask?"_

_John quickly went through a list of possible answers in his mind, eliminating them one by one, and decided on the most obvious. "Shot in the dark. But mostly it was Sherlock's expression when he saw your car. The rest is a total assumption on my part."_

"_An absolutely correct assumption, I might add," there was a hint of admiration now. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."_

"_Pleased to meet you," the blond doctor replied, his tone neutral. "You said that we need to talk. Care to elaborate on that?"_

"_Yes, of course. Do you plan to continue your association with my brother, Doctor Watson?"_

'_That sounds familiar,' John thought, keeping silent for a moment, 'but at least he hasn't brought up my files for reference... yet."_

"_Maybe. Why do you care? It's not like you and Sherlock are a happy, loving family anyway."_

_A shadow of pain flickered briefly in the older man's eyes, but he took control of himself almost immediately. "Did he tell you that?"_

"_Even if he didn't, it's pretty much obvious."_

"_He tends to be a little... irrational sometimes. He has always been... otherworldly, if you know what I mean. He's a very talented artist, but sometimes he fails to understand the obvious."_

"_Like what?"_

"_Like the fact that he can unwillingly and unintentionally hurt the people closest to him. That's what I want to talk to you about," Mycroft paused, his expression thoughtful. "You have already taken a liking to him, haven't you?"_

_John unconsciously squared his shoulders. "With all due respect, Mister Holmes, I don't think you have a right to ask me that."_

_A sad smile graced the older Holmes' face._

"_I realise that this topic is very sensitive for you, Doctor Watson, but I have no intention to interfere with your private life, believe me. I just want to warn you to be careful about trusting my brother. He tends to take it for granted, and sometimes the results can be... devastating."_

_John raised his eyebrows. "Thanks for your concern, but I'm willing to take that risk, Mister Holmes."_

_Mycroft smiled and twirled his umbrella slightly. "As you wish, Doctor Watson. Maybe it's for the best. My brother deserves to be happy, and maybe it's you who can make it happen. Good night, Doctor Watson."_

"_Good night, Mister Holmes," the ex-army doctor said absentmindedly, noticing the familiar building down the street. It was the clinic in which he had worked in reality a year ago._

_The car stopped near the clinic entrance, and John got out, marvelling about Mycroft's last words. What exactly did the politician mean by 'making Sherlock happy'? Did he know something John wasn't aware of, or was it just John's imagination?_

_His thoughts were interrupted by Mike Stamford, who met him at the door._

"_Finally!" his colleague exclaimed, ushering him inside and leading the way to Harriet's room. "I was starting to worry. What kept you so long? And whose car was that, that dropped you off?"_

"_It's a long story," John said evasively and attempted to change the topic. "How's Harriet?"_

"_When I told her that you're already on your way, she calmed down a bit," Mike said confidentially, then seemed to hesitate a moment. "John, I know that it's none of my business, but does all of that have something to do with that artist fellow?"_

_John cast a brief glance at Stamford. "Mike, I don't want to be impolite, but I'm really not inclined to discuss this subject right now."_

_Mike looked genuinely apologetic now. "Sorry, John, I didn't mean to intrude. Anyway, here we are," he turned the handle and pushed the door open. "Good luck, mate."_

_The blond doctor nodded, stepping into the room and mentally preparing for another heated argument with his sister. Harry was curled up on her right side, facing the window, but she started to turn around as soon as she heard the footsteps. The lights in the room were dimmed, and she called out to him in a small, almost childlike voice._

"_John? Is that you?"_

_For John, that voice was connected with painful memories and he barely suppressed a cringe when a particularly dark one made a sudden appearance in his mind. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it aside, shifting his attention back to reality._

"_Yes, Harry, it's me," he crossed the room and pushed a chair closer to her bed, then sat down. "How are you feeling?"_

"_Like shit," his sister said honestly and reached out, taking his left hand in hers. "John, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have... It's your life, you have a right to choose what's better for you, and I... I'm just... I'm a little bit jealous, I guess..."_

"_Whoa!" John raised his right hand, interrupting her. "Wait a minute, what do you mean, 'jealous'? I'm not exactly..."_

_His stunned expression drew a chuckle from Harriet. "Don't be so daft, John. I can recognise a man with a crush when I see one. You, my little brother, are certainly going to have your arms full with that handsome painter. And I mean it literally, John."_

_John spluttered in indignation. "What? What the hell do you mean by that, Harry?"_

_His scandalised expression pushed Harriet over the edge, and she doubled over with laughter, flailing her arms helplessly while he glared at her in disapproval. She failed to get herself under control repeatedly, because his glares seemed to only set her off into another bout of giggles; so John was forced to wait a few minutes for her to be able to speak again._

"_You are so f... funny, John!" she managed, hiccupping slightly. "My god, you really don't see it, do you?"_

"_See WHAT?" he exploded. "For God's sake, what are you talking about?"_

_She took a deep breath to calm down, exhaled noisily and tried her best to look serious._

_"First of all, John, I want to apologise. I'm really sorry that I reacted so…badly when you tried to introduce me to… What's his name again?"_

"_Sherlock," the blond supplied drily._

"_Right, Sherlock. When I saw him, I realised that he's the one who can take you away from me. And it just… It always had been just the two of us – the two Watsons, together through the best and the worst, and I kind of got used to that…"_

"_Harry…"_

"_Let me finish, John," his sister raised her hand, stopping him. "The moment I saw Sherlock looking at you with such… longing… He really needs you, John. He needs affection; he needs someone who would care about him… And it's you, John. My little brother, finally someone's keeper and saviour…"_

"_Harry, you're not making any sense!" the ex-army medic protested frantically. "He's my flatmate, not... I'm straight, for God's sake!"_

_Harriet chuckled and raised her eyebrows. "I'm not arguing, John. I'm just saying that you're perfect for him – in every way. When I can go home, John?"_

_The change of topic threw John for a moment, but he willingly went with it, especially because he really didn't want to continue the previous one._

"_Depends on how are you feeling, Harry."_

"_Much better, honestly. Ready to go home, just say the word," she looked at him expectantly._

"_In the morning, okay? It's too late, and I really want you to stay here for the night, just in case."_

_She nodded. "Deal. And you should go, or your Sherlock is going to get lonely," Harriet winked at him._

_John rolled his eyes. "He's not MY Sherlock, Harry, we're just flatmates. How many times do I need to tell you that?"_

"_Okay, your FLATMATE, John. But a girl can dream, little brother."_

_Deciding not to argue, John smiled in return and got up. "Dream away, Harry. And... good night."_

"_Good night, John," she turned on her side again and curled up. "Turn the lights off, will you?"_

"_Okay," the blond doctor flipped the light switch and left the room._

_Mike was waiting for him in the corridor, and stood up as soon as John closed the door. "How is she?"_

"_Good," John started walking to the exit. "She'll be staying for the night. Mike, can you call a taxi for her in the morning?"_

"_Sure," his colleague nodded. "You're going back to..."_

"_Baker Street, yes," John supplied, dreading the next question. But Mike really managed to surprise him with it a second later._

"_Has he finished that sketch from the park? The one he was drawing when you met for the first time?"_

_John's memory helpfully showed a framed pencil drawing of him and Mike sitting on the bench._

"_Yes, he did. It's in our living room right now. Why are you asking?"_

"_Oh, just curious. Can I drop by some time to see it?" Stamford said hesitantly._

"_Sure, not a problem," they got to the entrance and John pulled the door open. "I'd better go, it's getting late."_

"_Of course, John. I'll call the taxi for your sister in the morning," Mike accompanied him and managed to flag down a passing cab. "Good night, John."_

"_Good night, Mike," John got into a cab. "I'll try to drop in tomorrow before leaving."_

"_There's no need, John, I'm sure I can handle it while you're away. So take your time and get some rest. See you soon!"_

_The ride home was shorter than the ride with Mycroft to the clinic – the politician must've ordered his driver to take a longer route – and soon the doctor was sliding his key into the lock and opening the front door._

_Sherlock was waiting for him on the steps to the living room, an anxious expression on his face. As soon as John managed to close the door, Sherlock practically leapt forward and threw his arms around John, hugging him tightly._

"_You're back," his ginger companion whispered, nosing ecstatically through John's hair. "You're back... Oh god, I'm so glad that you're back, John..."_

_The older man carefully hugged his overjoyed flatmate and then pushed him away – gently, but firmly._

"_Of course I'm back, Sherly, it simply can't be otherwise. Stop worrying, I'm not going to disappear just because we had our first row."_

"_Ah, yes, about that... I have a surprise for you. It's upstairs," the painter grabbed his sleeve and towed him along. "Just a way to say sorry, I guess."_

_John thought that he was prepared for everything. But apparently he had been wrong, because when they got into the living room, he felt his breath catch in his throat._

_It was really breathtaking – a perfectly served dinner table with a pristine white tablecloth, and a myriad of flickering candles all around the room, making the view almost unreal in its perfection._

_His throat went absolutely dry, and his voice sounded hoarse when he finally found the words. "Sherly, this... This is amazing! You shouldn't have..."_

"_I wanted to, John," the ginger-haired man said softly, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, and motioned towards the table. "Shall we?"_

_John nodded and they walked forward, Sherlock's hand finding his and squeezing lightly..._

* * *

><p>A hand was clasped loosely around his, thumb rubbing across his knuckles lightly. He frowned, then blinked his eyes open in total disorientation. Sherlock's face came into view, the grey-blue eyes soft and shining with quiet amusement.<p>

"I think you should go upstairs, John," Sherlock murmured. "You're going to get muscle cramps, sleeping like that in your chair."

The ex-army medic looked around in confusion. No dinner table, no candles; dark-haired Sherlock in front of him.

The real one.

"You're right, I'm probably..," John frowned again. "But the rehearsal..."

"You need to rest, John, the rehearsal is not important right now," Sherlock stood up and offered him a hand. "Up you go."

John reached his hand out and was hoisted up in one smooth tug. Right after that Sherlock turned him around and pushed him in the direction of the stairs.

"Good night, Sherlock," John stumbled a little, then righted himself and went upstairs.

"Good night, John. Dream sweet dreams, my dear friend."

"Actually, I'd rather not," the doctor grumbled, finishing his ascent and opening his bedroom door.

This time, John managed not to dream at all...

* * *

><p>Morning came too soon, and John slapped down on his alarm clock with so much force that the unlucky gadget went flying halfway across the room. The blond man swore under his breath and climbed out of bed to retrieve the clock, only to discover it was damaged beyond repair.<p>

"Great," John grumbled. "A perfect beginning for the day. What's next?"

'Next' turned out to be the sulking world's only consulting detective on the sofa in their living room. Said detective growled something in return to John's 'Good morning', and continued to torment his long-suffering violin.

"Breakfast?" John enquired, plugging the kettle in and opening the fridge.

"Not hungry," Sherlock answered absentmindedly, placing his violin back in its case and steepling his hands. "Bored."

"That should teach you not to deck forensic experts, even if they are being extremely annoying. And, by the way, you aren't on a case right now, so you may as well try and eat something."

"Eating is boring."

"Maybe it is, Sherlock, but dying isn't so much fun either," John said firmly. "You're having breakfast. End of discussion."

"Ouch," the detective grinned. "The good doctor is trying to be mean. Interesting."

"Ha bloody ha," by that time John had the breakfast almost ready, so he turned to Sherlock with a stern expression on his face. "Okay, the mean doctor needs his wayward patient to go over here and nicely eat his breakfast."

Judging by the way Sherlock's eyes were shining, he was enjoying their little game as much as John did.

"The wayward patient is willing to consider the mean doctor's offer under one condition: said doctor goes to Scotland Yard and negotiates the removal of the suspension imposed by a certain Detective Inspector."

John chuckled slightly. "I should have guessed. So how bad is it?"

"Not bad at all, considering that you are going to do the talking," the younger man sprang up from the sofa and wandered into the kitchen, taking his accustomed place at the table. "You have a real talent for this, John."

"Yes, in that we sort of complement each other, I guess," John admitted. "Okay, I'll go, but only when you finish your breakfast."

"Of course, my dear doctor," Sherlock took his cup and reached for the toast, only to have his meal interrupted by an insistent knocking on their front door.

"Go on, I'll get it," John disappeared through the side door in a flash and thundered down the stairs.

There was a distinct click of a lock being opened, and then John's surprised exclamation.

"Is Sherlock here?" the familiar voice asked, and the corners of detective's mouth quirked up in a satisfied smile.

"Of course, Detective Inspector. He's upstairs," John said cheerfully, and right after that two sets of footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Sherlock stood up and made his way over to his chair, folding his lanky body into it gracefully right at the moment Lestrade appeared in the living room, followed by grinning John.

"Good morning, Lestrade," the detective greeted their unexpected guest calmly. "Nice of you to pay a visit to our humble abode. To what do we owe the pleasure, if I may ask?"

"I'm here to say that your suspension has been withdrawn. I've got a new case for you. A murder. The press already got a whiff of it, and they nicknamed the killer 'The painter'."

John stopped grinning and took a step back, grabbing onto the doorframe for support and shaking his head in disbelief. Sherlock shot him a questioning look, but the doctor simply waved him away, deep in his thoughts.

"Will you come?" Lestrade said urgently, desperation clear on his face. "My car is..."

Sherlock raised his hand, cutting the DI off. "John? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine. Just need to change my clothes," with that, the ex-army doctor turned around and disappeared from the room.

"You were saying?" Sherlock prompted, standing up and making his way to his bedroom.

"I'll be waiting for you in my car," Lestrade announced, also leaving the room. "Please hurry up."

"Five minutes, Lestrade," the detective called out. "Keep the engine running."


	4. Chapter 4

The painter.

John pulled the black jumper over his dark red shirt and looked in the mirror.

Not too bad, considering the fact that the last few days his own mind was constantly trying to drive him nuts. He kept seeing those strange dreams; his flatmate was spying on him with a purpose to extract information about said dreams, and the dream version of his flatmate...

John frowned while turning around and heading for the door.

The signals from the ginger Sherlock could hardly be misinterpreted, so the question was quite clear.

What the heck was John's mind trying to tell him?

His musings were interrupted by Sherlock, who unceremoniously threw the door open and barged in, stopping almost nose-to-nose with John. Startled, the blond doctor attempted to step back, but Sherlock just clamped his hands on his flatmate's shoulders, keeping him in place.

"What's going on, John?" the dark-haired man inquired, his pale eyes searching his friend's face.

The smaller man managed to keep his cool, holding his companion's gaze and smiling slightly.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Why do you ask?"

For a few seconds, Sherlock's hold on his shoulders tightened, long fingers digging into the fabric of the jumper and painfully pressing into the old wound. John gritted his teeth, hissed, and, bringing his arms up, pushed against Sherlock's chest to break the contact. Then he took a step back.

A slight frown creased the younger man's forehead and he shook his head slightly, trying to rid himself of a strange trance-like state.

"Sorry, John," Sherlock said quietly, looking away. "That was uncalled for. You acted strange in the living room, and I just wanted to know why," the grey-blue eyes again found the ones of the ex-army medic. "We have a case and I need your assistance. If something's wrong, I need to know about it now, John."

Now THAT was really strange. Why would Sherlock care, if he was alright or not? It always was: 'John, hurry up, we're leaving!' or something like that. So why...

The great detective tilted his head, watching as the realisation dawned on his friend, and then the doctor's expression rapidly closed down.

"This has nothing to do with the case, Sherlock. I'm just a little tired, I guess. But I'll manage, don't worry," John raised his chin and squared his shoulders, his dark blue eyes fixed firmly on his friend's face.

The dark-haired man simply raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Whatever you say, John," he waved his hand for emphasis. "Shall we go, then? Lestrade probably is biting his nails already."

As Sherlock suspected, John's eyes immediately widened. "Oh my God, I absolutely forgot about him!"

'And that's all it takes,' the thin genius thought triumphantly. "Inexcusable omission on your part, my dear doctor. Now's the perfect time to correct it."

With that, Sherlock swiftly turned on his heels and strode towards the door. John, caught in a tide of his companion's energy, quickly followed suit, straightening his jumper and habitually rolling his bad shoulder.

They stopped briefly in the hall. John, grabbing his coat and pulling it on, jerked his head towards the front door. Sherlock scrutinized him for a few seconds, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and opened the door. Pulling on his gloves, he stepped outside, waited for John to follow him and then shut the door behind them.

Lestrade's car was parked directly across with its rear door open. The DI turned his head in their direction as soon as he heard the door closing.

"You took your time," he grumbled, starting the engine. "Five minutes, my ass. Do you know that Anderson is already there and dying to get his hands on the body?"

Sherlock gracefully slid into backseat and moved over, making room for John. "It would hardly help him, unless the victim has written a note."

"No note." Lestrade turned the wheel, guiding the car into the traffic lane. "But we have the painting."

The detective hummed in encouragement and shifted closer to his flatmate, so now they sat with their shoulders and thighs pressed together. John threw a questioning look in Sherlock's direction, but the thin genius ignored him and started drumming his fingers on the doctor's knee.

"The body was found in the basement of a derelict house in Clapham by two boys, who decided to test their courage by going into the aforementioned building on the previous evening," Lestrade reported. "The kids definitely got more than they bargained for. Both keep saying that they scared off a ghost."

Fed up with Sherlock's absentminded tapping, John grabbed the younger man's hand and boldly moved it off his leg, then gently shoved his companion away. "Any details yet?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"Not much," Lestrade picked up a folder and passed it to Sherlock, who stopped glaring at John and flipped the folder open.

"Interesting," he commented, browsing through the photos and frowning in concentration. "John, what do you think?"

The blond doctor pulled himself out of the deep reverie, in which he had fallen when Sherlock stopped looking at him, and started leaning closer to his companion in order to see the photos; but right at that moment his pager beeped, causing John to jerk back with a start.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Now, John? Really?"

John reached for his pager, giving Sherlock an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Sherlock. Nothing personal, just work. There's an emergency and they need me."

"I need you more," Sherlock said flatly. "Your new job is starting to interfere with our work. It's unacceptable."

John huffed a breath and looked at the small screen of his pager. "We discussed this topic already, Sherlock. And I thought we agreed…"

The detective waved his arm dismissively, still scrutinizing John. "Of course we did. And I know how important it is for you, John. But the problem is, I need your expertise right now, therefore this call is extremely ill-timed."

The ex-army medic looked up and matched him gaze for gaze. "Can't help it, Sherlock," then he looked away and caught Lestrade glancing at them via the rear view mirror. "Um, Detective Inspector…"

Lestrade grinned at him and pulled the car into a stop not far from the Victoria Underground station. John placed his hand on the door handle and turned to Sherlock.

"I'll try to sort this out ASAP and get back to you, I promise," he said softly. Sherlock, once again engrossed in study of the photos, pointedly ignored his words, but John wasn't expecting his friend's reply anyway. When Sherlock was intent on sulking, the best course of action was to let him cool off on his own. So he glanced at Lestrade via the mirror again. "I apologize, Inspector."

"Don't worry, I completely understand," the DI flashed him a reassuring smile. "I'll keep you posted."

John got out of the car and watched it disappear into the traffic. Shaking his head, the blond doctor headed towards an entrance of the Underground station. Only when passing the tourniquet did he realise he could've continued his journey in Lestrade's car a little longer – his clinic was on their way. But, on the other hand, it meant enduring Sherlock's demonstrative sulking, and John was definitely not in the mood for that right now. Too many confusing questions, so few reasonable answers… He was really grateful for this unscheduled call – his work always gave him an opportunity to sort his thoughts out and brought some sort of calm confidence – no matter how complicated it was.

By the time he reached the entrance of the clinic, he was in his full 'doctor mode' – back straight, shoulders squared, eyes sharp and accessing, and his gait quick and confident. All in all, he was ready for action; and the opportunity didn't fail to present itself. A man in a black suit stepped forward, blocking John's way, and the ex-army medic barely had the time to slow down and therefore avoid the imminent collision. The stranger stayed put, watching him impassively and keeping silent. John's determination, on the other hand, started to tip the scales of his patience towards annoyance, and the doctor tilted his head.

"What's the matter?" John barked. "I'm in a hurry and you're in my way."

"There's no need to be so aggressive, Doctor Watson," the dark-suited man replied, staying motionless and keeping his arms behind his back. "Someone needs to see you."

"Not now," John tried to sidestep his opponent, but his path was blocked again – by another black-suited and equally formidable-looking man. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have an appointment right now."

"I have no doubt," the first man agreed calmly. "I was given orders to secure this appointment, in fact. Oh, and there's no need to be so surprised, Doctor Watson. You should be used to this procedure already."

John rolled his eyes.

"Bloody power complex," he grumbled, glancing around for the familiar black car. "Where to this time?"

A stinging pain in his shoulder took him by surprise; he whirled around, trying to see his assailant, then wavered and started to fall sideways. 'Somebody should have seen this,' the last thought flashed across his mind and then the darkness swallowed him.

The dark-suited man took a step forward and caught his unconscious target, laying the blond on a miraculously appeared gurney.

"Closer than you think," he murmured, and nodded to his team. Four men in white uniform nodded back, covered John's body with a sheet, seized the gurney and rolled it through the clinic's doors…

* * *

><p>After John's departure the two men in the car continued their journey in total silence. Sherlock was still studying the photos, and Lestrade kept his eyes on the road. But when they got closer to their destination, the DI started glancing at his passenger through the rear view mirror with an annoying frequency. The detective tried to ignore that, but was unable to last even two minutes.<p>

"All right, out with it!" he grumbled in irritation, snapping the folder closed. "What's the matter?"

Lestrade collected his thoughts and cleared his throat. "Well, considering that Doctor Watson won't be able to assist you on the crime scene, there's a small issue of…"

"Anderson holding a grudge?" Sherlock finished with a smirk. "Don't worry, Inspector. Won't be the first time."

"You almost broke his nose," Lestrade reminded matter-of-factly. "He was intent to bring you up on charges; it took quite an effort to stop him from doing that."

The dark-haired man huffed impatiently. "Get to the point, Lestrade."

Right at that moment they finally reached their goal, and the DI stopped the car. Turning around, he locked his eyes with Sherlock.

"I can't order you not to antagonize him, Sherlock. Hell, even if I could, it would be pointless. I know you can't stand each other, and with John's absence…"

"I require five minutes at the crime scene and full access to the body at Bart's. For me and John, of course. After that I will state my conclusions."

"After that?" the DI frowned. "But you're always…"

"Not in this case, Inspector," Sherlock interrupted firmly, placing his hand on the door handle. "Shall we?"

"Of course, as you wish," Lestrade shook his head and, getting out of the car, strolled towards the house. Sherlock followed him to the front door, then stopped and squatted down, fishing out his magnifier.

"Interesting," he murmured, studying two deep and evidently fresh square indentations on the ground. "This house isn't for sale, I presume?" Sherlock got to his feet and scanned the façade. "No, abandoned more likely."

"The owner went bankrupt two years ago, committed suicide. No known relatives. The house just went derelict," Lestrade supplied, taking in the depressing sight and shifting from foot to foot uneasily. "The body is in the basement."

"I remember," Sherlock was still glancing around – this time studying the surrounding houses. "Not the best neighbourhood, I imagine."

"Yes," Lestrade agreed, taking a step to the entrance of the house. "People here prefer to keep their life quiet. We started a door-to-door enquiry, and came with nothing so far."

"I'm not surprised," Sherlock commented, finally joining Lestrade near the threshold. "Looks like someone is quite smart. That's promising."

"Does it mean you would be willing…?" Lestrade began, opening the door, but was immediately interrupted with a snort.

"Nice try, Inspector, but no," the younger man was looming behind his back. "Bart's, John's expertise. I thought I had expressed myself clearly."

"Worth a try," Lestrade shrugged and led the way inside the house.

They crossed the hall and were almost near the basement door, when a snide voice caused them to stop in their tracks.

"Well-well-well. Look who's turned up," Anderson commented, stepping into the hall and folding his arms across his chest. "Are you alone again? Did the good doctor finally figure you out?"

Briskly turning around, the DI witnessed a slight twitch of a muscle under Sherlock's right eye. Not a good sign.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered urgently, forcing the pale eyes to focus on him. "You said yourself, he's holding a grudge. Don't…"

Sherlock shook his head, took a deep breath and, without saying a word, sidestepped the DI and went into the basement.

The silver-haired man sighed with relief, stared his forensic expert down, barked "Get to work!", and followed the detective downstairs. Sherlock was already engrossed in his work: he was darting about the room, squatting down and immediately springing back up, taking samples and muttering something under his breath. But he was evidently avoiding the body sprawled out on the dusty floor; instead of examining it, Sherlock seemed to be focusing all his attention on the painting which was leaning against the wall in the furthest corner of the room. It looked like he was performing some sort of a ceremonial dance around it: coming closer and whirling away before finally lunging forward and dropping into a low crouch directly in front of it. Then Sherlock placed his palms on the ground, leaned forward, and literally froze.

Lestrade leaned back against the wall, rubbed his palms over his face, then dropped them down and, sliding down the wall, settled to wait. Time seemed to be stretching; seconds turned into minutes, minutes into eternity, and Sherlock still kept his body motionless.

It sure as hell felt like eternity, but when Lestrade saw a small shiver, which shook Sherlock's body, he automatically glanced at the watch on his wrist. Two minutes. Sherlock "blanked out" only for two minutes, so how…

The consulting detective sprang back to his feet, coat tails flapping dramatically, and whirled around to face the baffled Lestrade.

"I'm done here," Sherlock announced, dusting himself off. "See you later, Lestrade," with that, he breezed past the DI and disappeared from the room.

It took nearly a minute for Lestrade to snap out of strange trance-like state, and, getting to his feet, he rolled his eyes and walked towards the picture.

Then he froze.

He practically memorized it from the photos: a balcony of the Italian-styled villa, a sunny day, a young man (now deceased) sitting in the chair with a glass of sparkling wine in his hand.

He remembered it clearly.

As clearly, as he could see the empty chair and pieces of glass on the balcony floor on the painting right now.

The man was gone.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock escorted him to the table and made sure he was settled comfortably. Then he took his place across from John and leaned back in his seat, his gaze locked firmly onto John's face.<em>

_Unnerved by the younger man's scrutiny, the doctor shifted in his seat, but held his gaze almost without blinking. His ginger companion kept his face neutral, but there was something in those pale eyes… Curiosity, a spark of wonder, a shadow of admiration… It was as if those eyes were trying to see his very soul. But they weren't intruding, calculating or attempting to pry John's secrets out; on the contrary, Sherlock was giving as much as he was asking. Crushed hopes, painful disappointment, broken faith… And a heart-wrenching loneliness, which always came with the realisation that there was no-one who could understand and fully accept you…_

_It must've showed somehow on John's face, because the next moment Sherlock's eyes darted away, and he busied himself with the task of opening the bottle and filling the tall glasses. John, still shaken to the core by the sudden revelation, blinked a few times and shook his head._

_"Don't take this too seriously, John," Sherlock's calm voice shattered his thoughts. "Sometimes I have an unusual effect on people. Genes, I guess."_

_"And by unusual you mean…" John enquired, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts in some semblance of order. Surely it wasn't a total act several moments ago, was it?_

_"It wasn't," the painter answered his thoughts. "I have been entirely honest with you. But I'm talking about earlier, before you left. You don't strike me as the person who would be so prone to emotional blackmail."_

_John frowned. "Sherly, I already told you, she's my sister. We're very close. I can't just ignore…"_

_The ginger-haired man shook his head. "I'm not talking about Harriet, John. I played you, and you bought it without any hesitation. Why?"_

_'Good to know that Sherlock remains a smartass even in my dream,' John smirked internally and leaned back in his chair. "Strategic move, Sherly. It's always easier to deal with problems by turns. And family always comes first, you know."_

_The ginger man's lips twitched. "Touché, John," he reached for the glass."I obviously wasn't mistaken on your account. It's worth celebrating, don't you think?"_

_His ginger companion was smiling, but his eyes… There was something dangerous lurking in their depts, barely contained by the power of will. John tilted his head and quirked up an eyebrow._

_"I should warn you, Sherly, I don't take too kindly to being tested. My decision to move in with you wasn't based on an impulse – I'm not the one who trusts the first impression. If you think you can play me – you've got another bloody think coming, mate."_

_The ginger maverick raised his chin and shot a withering stare in the direction of his flatmate._

_The doctor answered with a toothy grin. "THAT is also not going to work – Afghanistan, remember?"_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stubbornly kept silent. John shook his head. "Hopeless. I should have guessed…" he faltered, realisation dawning. "Wait a minute… No, it can't be. You're surely not that…"_

_"What are you talking about?" Sherlock interrupted, evidently growing tired of his unfinished sentences._

_John smiled and leaned forward, closing his fingers around Sherlock's hand which held a stem of the glass. His ginger companion frowned, but didn't make an attempt to pull his hand free. Encouraged by this, the doctor stroked the elegant fingers. "Sherly… This dinner – is it because of Mycroft?"_

_The painter's reaction was instant: his face paled and he tried to jerk his hand away. John, of course, didn't let him – more than that, he reached with his other hand and grasped Sherlock's wrist, starting to rub the delicate skin gently with his thumb. But Sherlock didn't give up – he still tried to tug his hand away a few times; John just kept his slow caress, ignoring the ginger man's weak struggle. Patience is the best weapon against an unbalanced temper – the ex-army medic knew it perfectly well. Had been in situations like this before, handled them. Sherlock – even this strange dream version of him – was unique; but human, nonetheless, and human beings need__ to be handled with care and attention, even if they appear to be vigorously denying that._

_"Sherly," John's voice was quiet and soft. "I'm not your enemy. I'm just trying to understand."_

_The painter took a shuddering breath and looked away. The doctor gave his hand a slight squeeze and let go, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back. Being patient included giving the other person some time and space. In Sherlock's case – LOTS of time and space, and John was perfectly okay with that._

_Two minutes later the ginger-haired man shook his head and met the doctor's gaze again. "Mycroft. Always Mycroft. No matter how hard I try to distance myself, he refuses to leave me alone."_

_'Sounds familiar,' John raised an eyebrow. "Has it occurred to you that he might be worried about you?"_

_"Mycroft isn't able to WORRY about anyone. He CONTROLS people, and expects them to OBEY without questions," Sherlock said sharply, and his fingers tightened around the stem of the glass with such force, that his knuckles turned white._

_John rose from his chair and went around the table, stopping behind Sherlock's back. The painter followed him with his eyes, and then tipped his head back in order to see him. The doctor slowly and carefully placed his palms on the younger man's shoulders. The gray-blue eyes looked at him without blinking, the spark of curiosity shining in their depts. John gave the tense shoulders an experimental rub, and the painter leaned his head forward, gradually relaxing and giving his flatmate better access._

_"Well, as you already know, I had the chance to meet your brother today," the doctor began, and the ginger man's shoulders abruptly became stiff again. "And there's no need to react so strongly, Sherly. Your brother was very polite with me. Asked about my future plans as your flatmate."_

_"It's none of his business," Sherlock grumbled, still tense. "Every time I meet somebody, he scares them off with his paranoia. He has no right…"_

_"He is your older brother, Sherly, even if you don't see eye to eye," John interrupted._

_"Just drop it, John," Sherlock said with irritation. "I wanted to spend a quiet evening with you. And you're spoiling it," he shrugged the doctor's hands off and stood up, whirling around to face him. "Why are you so persistent?"_

_John took a step back and crossed his arms. "I just want to know you better, Sherly. I didn't know that my mention of your brother could irritate you so much."_

_"I told you earlier…"_

_"Yes, I remember. My fault. If it helps, I promise not to mention your brother starting from this very moment."_

_The painter scrutinized him for a few moments, then nodded and took his seat, motioning for John to do the same._

_'Weird,' the blond thought, walking around the table. 'Why has this dream become so awkward all of a sudden?'_

_"It's useless, John, considering that my brother isn't going to stay out of my life, wherever I like it or not," Sherlock said calmly. "But I hope we can forget about him for this evening," Sherlock reached for his glass of wine again. "As I was saying earlier, you're here. And it's all that matters."_

_"Sounds like a toast," John smiled, reaching for his own glass._

_"Because it is one," the ginger man answered with a smile. "Shall we?"_

_"Of course," the doctor touched his glass to his companion's carefully…_

And in the next moment, he woke up, roused by a stinging slap across his face.

It took him several moments to shake off the drug-induced daze, and then he lifted his head, gazing around in confusion. He was in a semi-darkened room, strapped to a narrow bed with an IV line stuck into his arm. A bunch of sensors connected to various machines were attached to his body – he felt like a fly in a spider's web.

Speaking of a spider… John finally focused his gaze on the person standing near his bed, and his eyes widened.

The man in a white uniform smiled with satisfaction. "You're a heavy sleeper, Doctor Watson," his voice was soft, but his blue eyes reminded John of an iceberg. "Oh, and you seem to have quite interesting dreams too, as I discovered. I will be delighted to know about them later, but for now I have a more pressing question to ask," he sat down on the edge of the bed, and John barely contained an urge to flinch.

"Not before YOU explain all of this, Doctor Milverton," he said, trying his best to sound intimidating.

Milverton smiled again. "Nice try, but you're hardly in a position to demand anything, Doctor Watson, in contrast to me." Another smile, this time looking downright predatory. "So take my advice: don't be a hero. I have methods to make you talk, but I would prefer not to resort to them."

John simply closed his eyes and turned his head away.

"Defiance," Milverton chuckled darkly. "So delightful." There was a movement, and then the doctor felt a needle puncturing the skin of his arm. Alarmed, he started to struggle, but with the restraints it was absolutely pointless – Milverton just pressed his arm down and slowly injected the contents of the syringe into John's body, then stood up. "Now all we have to do is to wait."

A rush of heat flooded John's body – so strong, that he gasped in surprise, and then shivered from head to toe. After that everything went blurry, but the last thing he remembered was Milverton's soft voice in his ear.

"Tell me about Sherlock Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the long wait, my dear readers, but the inspiration for this chapter was extremely slow-coming... But I got it in the end, so... Hope you'll enjoy it, although this chapter turned to be a bit strange.**

It took almost ten minutes for Sherlock to get a cab in this not-so-friendly part of London, and as soon as he got into the car, he reached for his phone. In contrast to the previous case, this one seemed to be interesting, and the detective quickly typed a message to his loyal blogger. Lestrade agreed to give them the access to the victim's body, and Sherlock was impatient to hear what John would say about the cause of death. The body was obviously brought into the basement from somewhere else and laid out on display according to the Painter's taste. There were no visible injuries, but that was to be expected, taking into account the artistic nature of their killer.

But right now Sherlock was more interested in the painting that he encountered at the crime scene. Of course he noticed the difference, and the reason of his strange dance at the crime scene was quite simple: as always, he needed to understand how it was done. Needless to say, he got his answers, but John's absence, to Sherlock's surprise, made his discovery less satisfying. This was unacceptable, and demanded to be corrected as soon as possible, so Sherlock sent his message and impatiently waited for the answer.

But his mobile remained annoyingly silent, and the detective, huffing in irritation, sent the second message – again, without any result. Of course it wasn't unusual – sometimes John was so busy treating his patients that completely ignored Sherlock's messages. The result was entirely predictable – not bothering to call, Sherlock told the driver the new destination (which, of course, happened to be John's clinic) and leaned back in his seat, putting the mobile back in his pocket. Even if John right now was in the operating room, Sherlock was ready to wait near the door and grab John the moment he would step out. He actually did such trick a couple of times when the case demanded John's participation and the good doctor was too busy at his recent work. Of course, both times the result of Sherlock's actions was disastrous: John lost his job and, consequently, didn't speak with his flatmate about a week. Eventually, the doctor forgave his insufferable friend, but they both knew that these instances won't be isolated, so, weighing all pros and cons, John decided to treat it all like a part of his strange working relationship with the detective. Sherlock, of course, just took everything for granted, and that's why he now was en route to John's working place and ready to cause his friend some more trouble.

It didn't take long for the taxi to reach its destination, and soon Sherlock paid the cabbie and got out of the car. This was his first visit to John's new place of work, and the detective spent a few moments just observing the building. It was a small private clinic – expensive-looking and quiet, but Sherlock was unexpectedly struck by the thought that something here wasn't right. He couldn't explain how he knew that; but the sudden idea was so persistent that he even shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake it off.

Before he met John, Sherlock always based his deductions on facts and solid evidence; upon meeting the ex-army medic, the detective treated him in the same manner, but their first visit to the crime scene served as the catalyst for Sherlock's transformation. Well, to be exact, it was John's emotional reaction that triggered Sherlock's curiosity and caused him to focus his attention on the new flatmate. John, in contrast to Sherlock, preferred to rely on his feelings, and, little by little, the detective found himself tuning in to his friend's attitude. Needless to say, he did his best not to show it, but, judging by John's fleeting glances and small knowing smiles, not always succeeded in that task. Luckily for Sherlock, John was the only one who bothered to look closer; even Lestrade, who usually kept a watchful eye on Sherlock, completely missed the clues. The other one who paid attention to Sherlock's attempts to remain cold and rational was Mycroft, but he wisely refrained from any discussions on that matter.

So, standing in front of the clinic in question, Sherlock did the one completely rational thing that he preferred to do in such situations: he labelled the strange idea as 'possibly valuable information', stored it on his 'hard drive' and headed to the entrance of the clinic. On his way he habitually noticed two security cameras and made a mental note to check the history of this clinic. John was his closest friend, and if his new workplace triggered Sherlock's internal alarm, it was only logical that the detective decided to do his best to protect the doctor.

But the investigation of the clinic's ins and outs for now was secondary; first of all Sherlock needed to see John and to tell him about their new case.

The sliding doors opened as soon as he came closer, and Sherlock crossed the threshold, his watchful eyes taking a quick sweeping glance around the hall. There was a reception desk on the far side of the hall, and Sherlock walked towards it confidently, the corners of his lips lifting slightly into resemblance of a friendly smile. The blond woman behind the desk raised his head and answered Sherlock's smile with her own – an equally feigned one.

"Can I help you, sir?" the woman asked politely, at the same time giving the striking stranger a quick once-over.

Sherlock calmly waited her scrutiny out, then tilted his head to the right. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you can. I'm looking for one of your employees, Doctor Watson. Is he here at the moment?"

"Doctor Watson?" the woman looked thoughtful for a few moments, then her expression became genuinely regretful. "I'm afraid he isn't, sir. He left ten minutes ago. Doctor Milverton asked me to send a message for Doctor Watson, with a request for him to come and sign some papers. But I probably shouldn't have told you this…"

Sherlock flashed at the woman his most charming smile. "Don't worry, I'm not here to cause any harm to your career. I'm just trying to determine my friend's whereabouts."

She looked at him closely for a few seconds, then shook her head slightly. "I'm not worried about my career, sir, it's just… You certainly don't look like Doctor Watson's friend."

The detective's face remained impassive, apart from a slightly raised left eyebrow. "Interesting assessment. Care to tell me what makes you think that?"

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "No offense, sir, but you look too exotic. Anyway, as I said already, Doctor Watson left ten minutes ago, and was on the phone with somebody on his way out."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured quietly, paying no heed to the compliment. "Can I see Doctor Milverton, by the way?"

"Unfortunately, no," this time the woman replied without any hesitation. "Doctor Milverton prefers to receive visitors only by prior arrangement."

"Reasonable," the detective pulled the phone out of his pocket and sent another message to John – again, without any result. "Well, thank you for your help, Mrs. Davenport."

"Nothing to thank me for, Mister…" she replied, prompting for his own name, and Sherlock decided to satisfy her curiosity. She did give him some valuable facts, after all.

"Holmes," he said shortly, turning on his heels and heading towards the exit. "Afternoon."

"Afternoon, Mister Holmes," she called after him, narrowing her eyes slightly and, as soon as the sliding doors closed behind the visitor, immediately pressed a button on the intercom. "Charles, Holmes just left the clinic. I did all that you asked me to do, and I think we can count on his return."

"Excellent, Margery," Milverton replied with satisfaction. "I'm sending Alice to take your place. Please come downstairs, the situation with our guest requires your immediate assistance."

Soon after that a nurse hurried into the hall, heading to the reception desk and Margery, and the blond woman rose to her feet, vacating the seat. "I'm on my way."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Earlier, in the basement of the clinic<strong>_

As a medical man, John Watson had a fair idea of what the truth serum was capable of doing with an average person. As a military doctor, he even had a chance to deal with an aftermath of this process – there were couple of times when he had to take care of special agents rescued from an Afghan prison. As he managed to find out, those men were injected with a relatively small dose of the serum, but it still caused some side effects. In one case it was the retrograde amnesia, so all John could do is treat the man's wounds and arrange his transfer to the hospital. But the other one…

The other one was truly remarkable: he had a special training which allowed him to overcome the serum's effect, and he managed to feed his captors with a counterfeit. But he also managed to anger said captors, so when John was temporarily assigned as his physician, he was shocked to see the extent of the damage done to the man's body. However, James (John asked for the name, not really expecting an answer, and was really surprised when the special agent actually replied to the question) reassured him that in his line of work getting scars was an equivalent of getting rewards – as long as both things won't be given posthumously.

After that confession the topic of their conversation shifted onto James' serum-induced experience. Of course, the special agent warned the blond doctor that all that he was going to say should remain confidential, and John, in turn, reassured James that his secrets will remain as such.

The special agent skirted around any physical details, other than saying that he felt 'very relaxed and talkative'; but he was very thorough in describing the methods of overcoming the effect of chemical. He began with wishing for John 'never to find himself in such a situation, of course', and continued with 'but if you'd happen to be dosed with the damn thing, know this: you need to let your imagination run wild. Invent as much info as you can. The more you say – the better chance that they would swallow it'.

James faltered after that, his sky-blue eyes glazing over with pain, and John, cursing under his breath, immediately administered the painkiller.

That conversation was the first for them, and also happened to be the last – half an hour later James was whisked away in a specially sent medevac. But before James was carried away by a two uniformed men, he grabbed John's sleeve.

"Good luck, Doc," the special agent said sleepily, trying to keep his eyes open. "Pleased to meet you and really hope you won't have the chance to use my advice."

Fortunately for John, the rest of his tour happened to be relatively uneventful, and continued to be so up to his medical discharge. But right now, lying bound and helpless on the bed, completely at Milverton's mercy, he remembered James' words.

The special agent was right – the sensations flooding the doctor's body were deceptively pleasant. His body felt boneless, overwhelmed by a constant flow of pleasant warmth, and his mind was seemingly filled with a slush which made concentration practically impossible. But John was still struggling, still trying to grab onto the evasive thoughts. He needed to do something to prevent the drug from completely taking him over and, what was more important, from forcing him to betray Sherlock.

Sherlock… The name tugged at his hazy mind, bringing forth a visual of the dark-haired man in a billowing coat, running along the street. But just a moment later it was replaced with a view of their living room which included a ginger maverick sitting in the armchair near the fireplace, and John instantly saw a way to trick his captor. He pushed memories about the real Sherlock back into a recess of his mind and, focusing on the detective's ginger-haired version, stopped resisting the overwhelming urge to speak.

He felt a bit guilty about betraying Sherly, but it lasted only for a few moments – the painter was just a figment of his mind, after all, and, considering that John had no idea what Milverton's plan actually was, losing the trust of an imaginary companion wasn't such a big deal.

So he told Sherly's life story to Milverton, and kept talking until his words turned into strings of garbled, unintelligible sounds. At that point, Milverton leaned forward, whispering something into his ear, but John, as much as he tried, was unable to comprehend his captor's words. The last thing he managed to see was a flash of disappointment on Milverton's face; after that there was a pinprick of a needle, and a few moments later the world around him faded into non-existence…

* * *

><p><em>There are times in life, when even your mind seems to have the weirdest sense of humour. That's what John thought when he found himself at the table in the candle-lit living room, with his fingers holding the stem of a wineglass and – surprise-surprise – Sherly sitting across from him, holding his own glass and looking at him expectantly. When John failed to react right away, the painter leaned back in his chair, chuckling quietly.<em>

_"Still thinking about my brother, John?" a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Sherly's lips, making him look more boyish. "Mycroft tends to do that to people, actually. The mere thought about him tends to paralyze almost anyone. But I really hoped you can find the way to overcome this effect. You're a military man, after all, and something tells me you're not as simple as you pretend to look."_

_John practically forced himself to smile in return. "My paralyzed state, as you kindly put it, Sherly, has nothing to do with your brother," the doctor paused, wondering if the serum affected the person in his or her unconscious state. Right now it definitely seemed to be the case. "I betrayed you, Sherly."_

_The grin disappeared from the ginger man's face and he frowned in confusion, still not letting go of the wineglass. "I beg your pardon?"_

_John took a deep breath, marshalling his scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. This was going to be one hell of an explanation. "You're just a creation of my mind, Sherly, so I sold you out in order to save the real Sherlock Holmes."_

_He did it. He told the truth. Such a pity Milverton wasn't able to hear that._

_The painter appeared to be looking shocked for a moment, then slowly put his glass down, a small, knowing smile replacing the stunned expression. "I was wondering if you were bold enough to admit it, John."_

_The doctor just gaped at him, totally at loss for words. Sherly's smile blossomed into the full-blown grin. "Serum, John. Remember? I was created by your mind, so it's affecting me too."_

_The blond man finally put his glass down, shaking his head slightly. "And here I was, happy that I managed to create a different version of you. Pathetic."_

_"I AM different," the painter objected, stroking the stem of his glass in such sensuous manner that John felt his mouth suddenly go dry. "You perceive your real friend as the embodiment of logic, a calculating machine; I, on the other hand, have all the characteristics of a normal human being. I believe I already gave you the chance to feel the difference."_

_"'Feel' being the operative word here, I guess," John finally regained his composure. "By the way, you really managed to pique Sherlock's curiosity. Congratulations on that."_

_"Well, since it was your initial goal, no need to thank me, John," Sherly tilted his head to the right. "But something tells me you have more important things on your mind than showing me your gratitude. Am I right?"_

_"Can't say that I'm surprised, Sherly, because you're simply reading my thoughts," John remarked. "But yes, I need to ask you a favour."_

_"You're right, I'm an artist, not a detective," the ginger man confirmed quietly. "And sure. Whatever you need, John."_

_"Thanks for understanding," John grinned, suddenly realising that he just basically agreed to help his own self. But his smile didn't last long: crazy or not, it was his only hope of survival. "The thing is, right now I'm being held prisoner by my employer, Doctor Charles Milverton. And something tells me he isn't going just let me walk out of this clinic and continue my everyday life. So I need you to be my failsafe. Milverton is capable of anything, and he won't hesitate to destroy me if he deems it necessary. I just hope I would be more useful for him alive, but… Anyway, If I survive, I need you to help me remember myself…"_

_"You do realise that you are not making any sense, John?" Sherly interrupted, frowning._

_John couldn't blame him for that: Milverton's plan was still a mystery for the ex-army doctor, and therefore his own strategy remained purely hypothetical. "Of course, but it's the best explanation I can give you for the moment, I'm afraid," John confirmed and, seeing that the painter was about to interrupt him again, raised his index finger warningly. "Ah! Just let me finish, Sherly."_

_The ginger-haired man closed his mouth and looked at John, his eyebrow raised inquiringly._

_"Well, as I mentioned already, Milverton is capable of anything and therefore extremely dangerous. But something tells me his possible plan is far more intricate than a simple old-fashioned murder. He is a psychiatrist, so I won't be surprised if he decides to mess with my head. Psychological traumas sometimes are more severe than the physical ones; that's why I need you to, shall we say, save a copy of my personality on your hard drive and basically restore it if something bad happens."_

_To John's surprise, Sherly digested all that information without even batting an eyelid. "Not exactly what I would call a satisfying explanation, but I think I know what are you talking about," the painter said thoughtfully, then looked John straight in the eye. "And I will do my best to help you, John; you have my word on that."_

_"Thank you, Sherly," the doctor replied gratefully, and then reached for his abandoned wineglass. "Now, with this problem out of the way, I think we should…"_

_He didn't have time to finish the sentence; the world around him suddenly narrowed, then dimmed, then completely went away. The last thing he remembered was the painter's panicked 'John!', and then nothing…_

* * *

><p>When Margery reached the basement – or, more specifically, the area housing the storage room which was recently converted into their prisoner's holding cell, and the old laboratory – the improvised operating room now, respectfully, - Milverton was already busy wheeling the stretcher with an unconscious John Watson out of one room and into another. Without asking any questions, the blond woman took hold of the front of the stretcher, helping her boss to manoeuvre it through the narrow doorway.<p>

"You're just in time, my dear," Milverton murmured gratefully. "As I expected, our good doctor chose to be uncooperative and refused to tell anything valuable. He has impressive imagination, though; this half an hour was… quite entertaining. But now I need you to assist me with the next stage of our plan."

"Of course, Charles," by that moment they stopped near the operating table, and quickly transferred their patient onto it. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

"Well, I already gave him a sufficient dose of anaesthetic, so you basically have two tasks: to wipe the blood off his face until the moment when I'll be able to proceed with the cauterizing the cuts, and to administer the final injection."

Margery nodded and went to the small table, on which was already laid out an assortment of instruments. Milverton watched her thoughtfully, a small frown creasing his forehead: something clearly felt a little off, and right now it was absolutely unacceptable. He needed to find the solution to this situation, and he needed to find it quickly – time was of the essence, and the realisation of his plan was too important to have it spoiled by his assistant's hesitation.

"Something wrong, my dear?" he said calmly, fastening the Velcro straps around John's wrists and ankles.

She turned to look at him, already holding a plastic bag with swabs in her hand. "No, Charles. Why do you ask?"

He took a step towards her, holding her gaze. "You seemed to be a little hesitant just a moment ago. Is something bothering you, Margery?"

"Nothing, Charles, I already told you," she repeated, turning away and reaching for the syringe to prepare the injection. But a moment later she paused and turned to face him again. "No, you right, I'm worried."

Milverton closed the remaining distance between them and took Margery's hands in his. "About?"

She looked away for the moment, biting her lower lip slightly. "His friend, Mister Holmes… He's going to cause us trouble, I'm afraid."

"I'm sure of it, Marg," he replied, causing her to look at him in bewilderment. "Don't worry, our sponsor warned me about Sherlock Holmes. But he also provided me with means to distract the so-called world's only consulting detective, which I intend to use a little later. For now we have more important task at our hands, and we should take care of that, don't you think?"

She nodded but made no attempt to move, a shadow of uncertainty still clouding her gray-green gaze.

Charles sighed. "Marg, dear, we don't really have time for doubts now…"

"What did he do to deserve such horrible fate, Charles?" she interrupted, looking at their unlucky prisoner. "He is so kind and so good that I would never believe he is capable of doing anything wrong."

"Nevertheless, he did something wrong – he did only one mistake, but that was enough. He became Sherlock Holmes' friend, and that's a very dangerous status. In our sponsor's opinion, at least. But enough talking, Marg, we really should get to work."

"Yes, Charles," she said quietly, busying herself with preparing the injection. It took her less than half a minute, and after that reached inside the plastic bag, pulling out a handful of swabs. "I'm ready."

"That's my girl," Milverton said fondly and, taking a scalpel, took a step towards the operating table. Margery followed him, trying her best not to think about what they were about to do.

Fifteen minutes later, when the right side of John's face started to look like a battlefield, filled with numerous deep bleeding cuts, Charles sent Margery away, telling her to come back in half an hour. She understood why – the next two stages of operation were the awful ones, and she was grateful for not being able to witness that. She still had the task of doing the fateful injection and bandaging John afterwards, so a period of rest right now was quite useful.

She went into the holding cell and sat there for a while, thinking about their unfortunate prisoner. She was going to become a part of his life soon, and she had a role to play; she didn't like it, but she owed her life to Charles. And Charles, in turn, owed his freedom to their mysterious sponsor, so refusing this job was unwise, if not to say dangerous.

Not to mention that they had Sherlock Holmes to deal with, of course. Margery remembered reading about him in newspapers – the man was a genius, brilliant and one of a kind. He solved crimes that stumped the police, and when she talked with him not long ago, he seemed to read her like a book.

Sherlock Holmes meant trouble; but deep inside, Margery hoped that their sponsor's plan failed, and John Watson could get his life back, even if that meant to be her own end.


End file.
